


Leaving All Your Air Behind

by especiallythezefronposter



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Foster Care, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, More tags to be added, Neil meets andrew while on the run and they run together, Pre-Canon, Road Trips, very small tiny reference
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-16 00:03:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/especiallythezefronposter/pseuds/especiallythezefronposter
Summary: When Abram meets Andrew in a suburb in California, Andrew tells him anywhere is better than there. Abram is just tired of being alone.





	1. Irvine

**Author's Note:**

> First off, Neil is Abram for part of the fic. That was a real pain to keep in mind, so if you catch any stray Neils in here, let me know.
> 
> Second, I've messed with the timeline of the original story a lot. Neil's mom dies when he's fifteen. Andrew stays in juvie until he's sixteen. Going to live with his biological family doesn't happen for some reason, so he's sent back to the Spears after juvie. If any of this doesn't make sense, try to just ignore it, that's what I've been doing mostly haha.
> 
> Also while writing this I suddenly realised that Belgium is probably one of the few places where it's legal to buy/smoke cigarettes from the age of sixteen. I had to cut several moments where they bought cigarettes, so if I somehow left in any of those, please let me know!

The weeks after Abram’s mother's death are a terrified blur. He spends most of the time convinced someone's going to kill him any second. Half the time he doesn't know if he's actually being followed or if he's just delusional from the lack of sleep and the infected bullet wound in his shoulder.

When his mom was alive she always made sure he slept enough. Without sleep he was useless, slow. 

Now he doesn't have anyone to watch his back, so he just avoids sleeping altogether. He hasn't gotten his eight hours a night since his mom and him started running, but he was used to at least six hours in total. Now he goes for two at a time, four's a luxury.

Right now he's yawning in a library in some nice little suburb outside Irvine, California, the kind of place where people who aren't criminals go to escape the city in their thirties.

He's googling random words while waiting for an email from one of his mother's contacts.

He types in 'geese' and listens as the librarian talks quietly to another boy sitting at another computer. He must be about Abram's age, fifteen, maybe a year younger or older, depending on whether he's tall or very short for his age.

'Andrew, dear, shouldn't you be in school?'

The boy doesn't look at her. He's pale, with pale hair and dark eyes. 'I'm not feeling so well.'

'I should call your mom, sweetie. She'll be worried.'

'I'll go right home,' the boy says, getting up. He doesn't have a bag with him. One of the sleeves of his black shirt rides up slightly when he scratches his neck and Abram can see the beginning of messy little cuts, some scabbed over, a couple fresh. 'Please just don't call her.'

The librarian calls his mom anyway.

'Your mom's at work, dear, but your brother is coming to pick you up.'

Abram types in 'water filter' and refreshes the tab in which he's opened the email account. He made the account just for this email, he'll delete it after.

He's already established his own alibi as to why he's here in the middle of a school day.

He's a guy from Britain visiting family friends over spring break (which happens at a completely different time of year in Britain, the librarian thought that was really interesting). He's visiting Mrs. Baker, you must know her, the garden architect.

He noticed the plaques this morning. Mrs. Baker designed most of the gardens in the neighbourhood. Her house is one of the biggest ones. It's likely that the librarian knows her, but never talks to her.

The guy, Andrew, glances at Abram before he leaves. His fingers are shaking, but only a little.

Abram refreshes the email page again and this time he has an email. At least now he won't run out of cash anytime soon.

-

He goes to pick up the money, following the instructions from the email. 

He takes a nap later leaning against the back of a closed diner, curled around his duffle. There's a little alcove in front of the back door and he shoves one of the heavy garbage containers in front of it, so that he's protected on all four sides and only has to worry about attacks from above. The nice thing about California is that he doesn't have to worry about staying warm.

He sleeps for longer than he planned, but his back doesn't hurt as much as he expected after, and he feels a little more relaxed.

He buys a paper and reads it three times, looking for any indication that his father's people could be near. He finds none.

He takes out the two Exy magazines that he also bought and spends the rest of the time pouring over that.

He's in this little park that seems to stay mostly empty the entire day. He only notices how much time has passed when it starts getting too dark to read. He checks his watch. It's eight already.

Then the guy from the library, Andrew, comes to sit beside him not much later.

'You're not British,' he says.

'No, I'm Irish, actually,' Abram says, switching to the accent effortlessly. He's already panicking slightly, but tries not to let it show. They've never sent a kid after him before. They won't start now. He's safe. He's safe.

'You looked up 'fries' instead of 'chips'. You're American. And you don't know the Bakers, because then you'd be having a three course meal right now.' He sounds bored, lifeless almost, like he's reading from a script.

'Okay, so I lied to a librarian. Are you here to tell me I'm going to hell?'

The boy's mouth twists slightly at that, not quite anger, but nearly. He doesn't say anything.

Abram just waits. He should leave. He really should, but he hasn't talked to anyone except for cashiers and librarians since his mom died. Now that someone's saying more than just a couple standard sentences to him, he realises how lonely he really is.

'Where are you going?', the boy asks eventually. Abram can tell that his mouth is dry.

'Why do you want to know?' 

The boy doesn't say anything. He digs a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it, talking a long drag.

Abram has been avoiding smokers since his mother died. Now the smell hits him full force. He's nauseous with how much he misses her.

'Nowhere,' he answers eventually. Some shaking suburbs boy isn't much of a threat, anyway. 'I'm going to San Francisco for a while, and I don't know where I'll go after that.'

He doesn't dare go to motels without his mom, fearing that the owners will call the police because he's too young to be on his own, but there's a safe house in San Francisco and he knows where to find the key.

There's another long silence. Andrew hands Abram the cigarette. He cradles it for a moment, then takes a drag and hands it back to the boy.

'I want to come.'

Abram is assumed to be dead by most authorities. He's running from his father's people and no one else. This boy is alive. He has a mom who worries about him when he skips school. He has a brother who cares about him enough to come pick him up from the library. He'd show up on milk cartons if he went with Abram. This would be a news thing and a child protective services thing and if they found Andrew, they'd find Abram, too, put him up with some foster family in a suburb just like this. 

His father would have the family killed first. Then he'd come after Abram.

Andrew pulls down the collar of his long sleeved shirt to reveal a bruise. A hickey. There's a bite mark right next to it. It looks fresh, like someone put their teeth into Andrew's skin in between now and when Abram saw him at the library. Andrew's hands look a little ragged, too, like he's been trying to fight someone off. And Abram now notices the faded yellowish bruises around Andrew's neck, the dark circles under his eyes.

Andrew suddenly pushes at Abram's face to get him to stop staring. Abram does, looking at his hands in his lap instead.

Andrew's voice sounds completely void of anything when he speaks. 'Anywhere's better than here.'

Abram is actually considering it. His mom would kill him. 'The people I run from have guns.' He pulls down the collar of his own shirt to reveal the bullet wound in his shoulder. It's almost like he's trading Andrew, a wound for a wound. 'They'll shoot you if they catch up with us.'

'So we don't let them catch up.'

Abram nods. It’s not that simple, but he can always get rid of Andrew if he turns out to be dead weight. He'll look up the child protective services tip line next time he has internet access, just in case.

For now he's just happy to have someone at his back.

Andrew gestures at a battered little car parked at their side of the little park. 'I even have a ride,' he says.

'You stole it?' Abram has stolen cars before, but it's a last resort. It isn't worth the trouble of attracting police attention on top of his father's people.

'No. I know the guy from the second hand car dealership just out of town. He gave me this because it's unsellable but still running. Let's go.'

Abram gets up and into the passenger seat. There's a duffle in the backseat. Andrew packs light, that's good. Abram drops his own duffle beside it while Andrew starts the car.

'I'm gonna wake you up in four hours. I'll drive towards San Francisco.'

Abram nods. 

He wakes up almost two hours later, according to the dashboard clock. He's sweaty and shivering and out of breath, though he doesn't remember exactly what he dreamt of. The smell of his mother's body burning lingers in his nose.

The contacts have dried up in his eyes and when he blinks, it feels like his eyelids are made out of sandpaper. He takes them out carefully and keeps his head angled so that Andrew can't see his eyes either by looking at him directly or through the rear view mirror. He reaches in his duffle for another pair and puts them on without a mirror. Nathaniel's eyes are blue. Abram's eyes, no matter what name he has on his fake ID, are brown. 

Currently his hair is black. He only dyed it three days ago, so he doesn't have to worry about the roots just yet.

Andrew glances at him. 'Do you want me to wake you up from nightmares?'

His mother always used to, but really it didn't make a lot of difference except that he wouldn't get as much sleep if woken up. 'Only if I make too much noise.'

Andrew nods.

'If you ever need to wake me, don't touch me,' he says after a long time. He drives for another half an hour, then pulls over at a gas station. It's almost eleven, but the lights in the little store are still on.

He goes into the store while Abram fills up the car and comes back with sandwiches and a pint of ice cream. He stars eating the ice cream while Abram gets into the driver's seat and unwraps a sandwich so he can eat while driving.

'What's your name?', Andrew asks. His lips are stained a pale pink from the ice cream.

Abram starts the car. Names don't mean much to him. They're like hair dye and contacts, a tool to keep himself hidden and safe. It hadn't occurred to him that Andrew doesn't even know what to call him. 'Alex,' he says.

'Lie,' Andrew says immediately. It doesn't sound accusing, doesn't sound like much of anything. Like he just read a random word from a piece of paper.

'Yeah,' Abram says. 'Lie.' It doesn't matter anyway.

Andrew just stares at him while he finishes his ice cream.

'Go to sleep,' Abram finally says, after he's passed the point of too uncomfortable with the attention.

Andrew does. He's weirdly still, his muscles tight, like he's ready to wake up and defend himself if someone comes too close. The only way Abram can tell he's actually asleep is by how slow his breathing is.

When Andrew wakes up four later he seems out of it. Abram stops at a twenty four hour diner with free Wi-Fi and Andrew follows him quietly to a corner booth. He doesn't react when the waitress asks him what he wants to eat, so Abram just orders for him. Andrew flinches slightly at his voice.

'Do you have a phone?', Abram asks after a while.

Andrew's eyes move slowly from the salt shaker he'd been staring at to Abram. He doesn't say anything. Abram isn't sure if he's even actually seeing Abram.

'Andrew, do you have a phone?', he repeats.

Andrew just stares at him some more, then takes a smartphone out of his pocket and puts it on the table. 'I wanted to toss it but I need to look some things up first.'

'You should do it now. Those things are easy to track.'

Andrew nods and turns it on, then starts typing away, still looking empty and slow.

When their food arrives, Andrew barely looks at it. He takes the bottle of maple syrup that's on the table with the salt and pepper, squirts some onto his plate and dips it up with his finger, sucking it off. Abram figures that's better than nothing.

When Abram coughs, Andrew flinches.

When Andrew's done, he puts down the phone.

He gets up and disappears into the men's room.

Abram picks up the phone, figuring he should check the news for reports about Andrew before they toss it. He recognised Andrew's brother at the library. His name is Drake Spear, he works at the supermarket in town for some extra cash.

Andrew Spear isn't mentioned in any recent news articles, so they probably didn't report him missing yet. Or they couldn't. It hasn't been 48 hours yet. If Andrew was skipping school at the library, if he was completely prepared to run away with Abram in only a few hours, he’s probably the kind of kid that runs away all the time. The kind of kid cops don’t look for.

Abram looks up the number for child protective services and memorizes it without a problem.

When Abram goes to clean his browser history, his heart stops. He should probably think what Andrew looked up is weird, a couple of names, followed by 'rape' 'rapist' 'sex offender' and 'abuse'. 

Still, it's mostly the names that give him pause. There's a couple of his old aliases. It's worrying to see all of them in the same place, but that's not why he's currently on the verge of a panic attack. It's the last name Andrew looked up, a name Abram hasn't heard since a man who worked for his father shouted it at him before putting a bullet in his mother's stomach.

Nathaniel Wesinski.

When Andrew comes back from the bathroom, he calmly takes the phone out of Abram's hands and slides back into the booth. He turns off the phone and takes out the SIM card, then fishes a lighter out of his pocket and holds it under the SIM card until it catches fire. He lets it burn out on his plate. 

'You went through my stuff,' Abram says, trying to catch his breath.

Andrew ignores him and pries at the insides of the phone with his nail.

'While I was sleeping.' Abram's breathing is getting back to normal, but his skin is still crawling. 'You pulled over and went through my stuff.'

'I had to be sure you weren't gonna kill me in my sleep and wear my skin as a coat.' Andrew's tone is light, almost condescending, but still completely void of emotion.

'That's not what you looked up,' Abram says, because he'd very much like to think of something other than the name.

Andrew doesn't react. He picks up the phone and the burnt SIM card and walks out of the diner. Abram follows, but pays before he leaves. He lets them put Andrew’s untouched food in a container to go.

Andrew's sitting in the driver's seat, the phone gone.

He floors the gas pedal as soon as Abram shuts the door behind himself.

They don't talk. Abram could sleep, but he doesn't think he can right now, so he just stares out the window.

'My original last name is Minyard.'

'What?'

'You heard me.'

'So the Spears...'

'Foster family.'

It feels like an apology for going through Abram's stuff, so Abram takes it.

Eventually he fishes his gun out of his duffle and takes it apart, cleaning every piece separately and then putting it back together.

Andrew messes with the radio for a while, flipping through channels and then abruptly turning it off. Abram isn't into music much, but takes note that apparently Andrew doesn't like the Smiths, or at least Abram is pretty sure that was the Smiths.

After a while they stop at a homeless shelter to shower and change, then Abram drives for another hour while Andrew either scowls at the radio or out the window.

'We could make this a game,' he says out of nowhere. They're passing Hayward by now. Almost there.

Abram has no idea what Andrew's talking about, so he just waits for him to continue.

'A truth for a truth.'

Abram wants to decline. His life depends on how well he can keep his secrets. It would be an insult to his mother to make a game out of telling them. 

On the other hand he doesn't know anything about Andrew and Andrew doesn't know anything about him. Andrew's going to be loyal as long as Abram and foster care are his only options, but they should build an actual relationship, so that Andrew will be loyal even beyond that.

'Okay,' Abram answers finally.

Andrew just nods.

He turns the radio back on, but puts it between two stations so that it's just white noise with the occasional word in between. Somehow he falls asleep through that.

Andrew is still asleep when Abram stops for gas again, right outside San Francisco.

He gets more sandwiches and a pint of ice cream form the store and by the time he comes back, Andrew is awake. He immediately takes the ice cream.

'Do you drink?', he asks with the little wooden spoon still in his mouth.

'Is this part of the game?'

Andrew shakes his head. Abram gets back in the car and drives away.

'A lot of the time we used it as anaesthetic. The last time I drank was...' He touches his shoulder. 'I don't really drink, like, casually. Just to take the edge off when the pain's too bad.'

Andrew makes a hollow sound, like a wheeze, that Abram thinks might be his approximation of a laugh. 'Anaesthetic,' is all he says.

'Who is we?', Andrew asks. When Abram glances at him, he adds, 'Part of the game.'

'My mom and I.'

'Your turn.'

'How many foster families have you been in?'

'I just left number twelve. How did your mom die?'

'The people we were running from caught up with us. They shot her. We managed to shake them but she'd lost too much blood.'

There's a silence before Abram asks his question. 'Was this the first time someone in a foster family was abusive?'

Andrew goes very still. 'No,' he says, almost a full minute later.

Andrew doesn't take another turn and they spend the rest of the drive in silence.


	2. San Francisco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try and update this weekly, but I can't promise anything since I'm headed towards finals and I've been procrastinating a lot (by writing fanfic), so there's a couple deadlines that are getting really close right now and probably should be priority. (I'm gonna try my best, though) Thank you all so much for reading!

The last time Abram was in San Francisco he was eleven. He still manages to find the key without much problem, hidden behind a loose brick at the side of the stairs leading up to the apartment building. He opens the door and Andrew follows him up the stairs to the right apartment in silence.

It's tiny, with a cramped bathroom, one bedroom with a queen sized bed and a living room and kitchen fitted into one room.

Andrew slowly makes his way through the three rooms while Abram checks if they have warm running water and electricity. 

'One bed,' Andrew says then. He looks a little pale. 'I'll take the couch.'

Abram watches as Andrew checks the lock on the bedroom door, putting the key on the living room side.

'We'll take turns,' Abram proposes.

Andrew doesn't react. After a moment he sits down on the couch and takes a book out of his duffle.

Abram checks the apartment for wires. It's always possible his father's people found this place and set a trap. When he finds none, he cleans the entire apartment. Andrew even slides aside for him when he's wiping down the couch.

When he's done, he gets his leggings out of his duffle and changes in the bathroom. He takes his binder and puts it in the lockbox in the kitchen, despite that Andrew has already seen it.

'I'm going for a run,' he tells Andrew. Andrew looks up at him for a moment, eyes lingering on Abram's legs. He abruptly looks back at his book, scowling slightly.

Abram isn't familiar with San Francisco, but it's a planned city, all parallel streets, so it's not hard to keep track of where he is. He only runs for two hours before going back. It's the most relaxed he's been in a while.

Andrew's still reading on the couch. By now it's ten am, but Andrew still hasn't eaten anything other than two pints of ice cream.

Abram showers quickly and puts on different clothes.

'What's your favourite non-desert?'

'It all tastes the same.'

'So if we get something for dinner you'll actually eat it?'

'I didn't say that.'

'Look, on the run, you can't go to a doctor, you can't go to a hospital. If you get sick, you get weak, and you endanger both of us.'

Andrew's scowl is back. 'I'll eat Thai.'

Abram has to suppress a chuckle. The kind of food Andrew is actually willing to eat is the kind with so much coconut milk it's pretty much a dessert.

Abram gets out his battered laptop, checks if the VPN is still working and looks up Thai places in San Francisco.

He memorises the way to the closest one and Andrew follows him out of the apartment.

The restaurant is a little cramped, but it's cosy and there's only a couple other customers.

They both order red curry, Abram with chicken, Andrew with prawn.

'Who are you running from?', Andrew asks. Abram doesn't have to ask if it's part of the game.

'My father. He's... a criminal.' Abram takes a moment to think about his own question. 'Do you know your biological family?'

Andrew shakes his head. 'Why do you keep all of Riko and Kevin's photos?'

'I love Exy.' That's not a lie, but it doesn't have much to do with the photos.

They're quiet for a while.

'There was an Exy team at your high school in Irvine,' Abram says.

Andrew doesn't react.

'I saw your name on the list of players. Goalkeeper.'

'That's not a question,' Andrew says in that light condescending voice.

'Why did you play?'

'It kept me away from home for an extra twelve hours a week,' he says. ‘The Exy team was the only one with weekend practice. I don't actually like Exy.'

Abram nods. He can't imagine that anyone who gets to play Exy could dislike it, but he doesn't tell Andrew that. 

He has thought about it since his mom died. He hasn't stayed anywhere for over a week since he burned her body in California, he hasn't had the time to do it, but he thought about it. To find some small Exy team. To play while he stays in that city.

His mother would have killed him just for considering it.

She's been dead for three weeks and he's already breaking all of her rules.

Their food arrives and for a while Andrew just watches Abram eat. When he finally digs in, he takes his time, eating slowly and still watching Abram a lot. 

Whenever Abram stares back for too long, Andrew gets annoyed and tells him to stop looking, once even punching him in the nose. (Abram is sort of annoyed, since it makes the other customers glance at them worriedly.)

Andrew orders a desert with mango, coconut and ice cream and eats it much faster than he did the main dish. 

'Did you mother abuse you?'

Abram is completely taken by surprise by the question. He wants to say no automatically, but when he thinks about it, he realises that would be a lie. 

'You don't react to violence in a way normal -' Andrew says that last word like one would say Santa Claus or Tooth Fairy, a story to placate naive children. '- people would.'

Abram is quiet for a while, thinking about his answer. 'She hit me sometimes. But only when it was justified. When I endangered us or when I was too slow.'

Andrew's staring at his empty plate, dragging his spoon through the last molten layer of ice cream. 'Grownups hurting kids is never justified.'

They walk to the safe house in silence. They take turns in the bathroom. Abram goes first and is already in the bedroom when Andrew goes in. When Andrew comes out, he comes to the door of the bedroom. 'Goodnight,' he says without opening it. 

'Goodnight,' Abram echoes.

Then Andrew locks the door. 

Abram tries not to panic. He knew Andrew was going to do this. He's been living in places where he doesn't feel safe for years. He's never been able to lock the door on people he didn't trust before. This is Andrew getting to be in control for the first time in his life. Abram is still safe. He can still get out through the window. It's only two stories, he's made much more terrifying jumps.

He eventually falls asleep and only wakes up ten hours later, which is incredibly late for him. 

His door is unlocked and Andrew is reading on the couch again. The clothes he brought from the foster home were in neutral colours, soft blues and beiges and greys. He seems to have replaced most of it with black now. 

There's waffles on a plate by the microwave and Abram reheats them, figuring it isn't the worst thing he's ever had for breakfast.

He gives Andrew a thousand dollar prepaid credit card. Andrew pockets it, but doesn't say anything.

Abram changes and goes for a run.

When Abram comes back, Andrew isn't there. Abram showers and changes, washes their breakfast plates and then just waits on the couch. He picks up Andrew's book. 

His mother tried to home school Abram while on the run, but made her own selection of what she thought was important and what wasn't. Languages, maths, geography, history. Literature wasn't very high on her list. Still the name Margaret Atwood is one he recognises, he just has no idea what kinds of things she writes.

He reads the back cover and the first few pages. He's not used enough to reading to like her writing style. It's complicated and requires a lot of concentration. Andrew must be pretty smart.

The boy in question finally walks back in.

His face is slightly red and his hair is wet, which, combined with the small bag slung over his shoulder, makes Abram assume he's gone to a gym.

Andrew throws something at him and Abram catches it automatically. 'Stephen bleached his hair,' is all he says.

It's one of Abram's ID's. In the picture his hair is indeed bleached. It looks enough like Andrew not to raise any questions.

This does mean Andrew cracked the code to the lockbox, but Abram tries not to panic about that. Andrew already knows everything there is to know. This isn't going to make things worse.

'I have a three month gym membership under Stefan's name, you can use it, too.'

Abram nods. 'Thanks,' he says. 

'And I have phones. Really old fashioned ones. Prepaid. We need to be able to communicate when we're apart.'

Abram nods. He's never really needed a phone before, and they're a liability, but Andrew's right, and the model he's picked seems to be one that's hard to trace unless you put a tracking device in the actual phone.

He takes the one Andrew throws at him. There's one contact already programmed into the phone. It just says A M. Abram wonders what initials Andrew used for him, whether he went with A F (if Andrew dug around Abram's ID's, he knows that Alex's last name is Ford) or with N W. Abram really hopes for the former.

Andrew spends a while on Abram's laptop and Abram goes for groceries. He mostly just buys premade things and some cups of microwave ramen. He gets Andrew two pints of ice cream. Caramel and strawberry sound the sweetest, so he picks those.

He gets a paper as well, and a sports magazine because the supermarket doesn't have any that are dedicated specifically to Exy.

Andrew goes through the bag while Abram puts the ramen in the cupboard and the other stuff in the fridge. He loses one pint of ice cream to Andrew, but gets the other one to the freezer safe and sound.

Andrew throws the sports magazine across the room. Then he takes out the paper and glances at the first page.

'I won't be in here,' he says 'or in the local news.'

'You're a white minor.'

'I'm a foster child who's been violent all his life and spent the last three years in juvie. And I told - Drake before I left that if they come after me, I'll come back right away and tell them who I was running from.'

Abram nods. That isn't a guarantee, but Andrew's right. He's a foster kid, he's the kind they've given up on a long time ago. He's old enough to take care of himself. They'll feel more relieved than worried.

Andrew gives the paper back to Abram and moves to the windowsill to smoke out of the window while Abram reads it.

When Abram is done and moves on to the sports magazine, Andrew comes over to snatch the paper away and retreats to the windowsill again.

'There's an article. Page nineteen. That discusses rape - pretty heavily,' Abram says quietly. It's about the connection between hate crimes and rape. He figures he can at least warn Andrew.

Andrew ignores him. He pages through the paper much faster than Abram did, then drops it on the floor and goes into the bathroom to shower.

Abram goes through local Irvine news on his laptop, and Andrew isn't in there, as he'd told Abram.

He knocks on the bathroom door and tells Andrew that he's going for a run.

Andrew tells him to take his phone, which Abram would have otherwise forgotten.

He runs for almost four hours, stopping only when his legs get too shaky. Walking back to the safe house is strangely relaxing. He's going someplace relatively safe. He won't be there alone.

When he comes back, Andrew is microwaving a cup of ramen.

'Can I take a turn?', Abram asks, kicking off his shoes.

'You stink,' Andrew says. He takes out his ramen and stirs it with a fork.

'Why were you sent to juvie?'

'I attacked my foster dad at the time with a knife.'

'Did any damage?'

'Hit a muscle in his arm. Damaged the nerve, even.' He doesn't seem remorseful or pleased. He's just stating a fact.

Abram takes a sandwich out of the fridge to eat and for a moment that's just it. They eat, Andrew leaning against the counter, Abram standing by the fridge.

Abram's looking at Andrew. He's wearing long sleeves again, his clothes all black. It looks good contrasted against his pale skin, makes his eyes more prominent. 

Andrew throws his fork at him. 'Go shower.'

Abram does. His shoulder hurts under the hot water, but really it’s been throbbing painfully for a while now, and he’s managed to ignore it so far. He ran out of antibiotic ointment a few days ago, and the wound isn’t getting any prettier. Ignoring it isn’t going to work for much longer.

He contemplates just figuring this out on his own, but the whole reason he let Andrew tag along is because he needs help. He's no good on his own.

He puts on underwear and pants, then wraps the towel around his torso, up under his armpits so that it covers most of his scars.

'Andrew,' he calls quietly. He opens the door to the living room. Andrew's at the windowsill with a book and a cigarette. He glances up, and is apparently interested enough not to look away, though he's looking more around Abram than directly at him.

Abram takes a deep breath. 'My shoulder - needs a second opinion.'

Andrew gets up and comes to stand in the cramped bathroom with him. 'It's not a very pretty shoulder.'

Abram just waits.

'Yes or no?', Andrew asks, hand hovering inches away from Abram's shoulder.

'Yes,' Abram says.

Before Andrew touches him, though, he pulls back and turns. To Abram's surprise he washes his hands in the sink, taking his time.

When he turns back to Abram, he refuses to make eye contact and instead focuses on the wound, touching it carefully.

'How long have you had it?'

'Little over three weeks.'

'I just wait stuff like this out but that may not work. Shouldn't have gotten shot.'

Andrew's eyes move to his other shoulder. 'What's this one from?'

'An iron.'

'When?'

'When I was nine.'

'Yes or no?'

'No.'

Andrew nods and looks back at Abram's bullet wound. 'I'll find something in a pharmacy later.'

Abram knows that Andrew's looking at the parts of his scars that are visible and it's makes him feel vulnerable and exposed and exhausted.

Andrew eventually just turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Abram finishes getting dressed and goes into the bedroom, wanting to be alone. Andrew doesn't look up at him when he walks through the living room.

Abram watches an Exy game on his laptop in the creaky chair beside the bed, but his fingers are still shaking when it's done.

He hears the door to the apartment open and close not much later and it's only twenty minutes before Andrew comes back.

Abram gets out of the bedroom, curious about where he went.

Andrew has a brown paper bag with him and unloads it on the tiny coffee table. There's two bottles of whiskey and one of vodka. Four packs of cigarettes. They haven’t run out of cigarettes yet, but it’s a near thing.

He throws two things at Abram and Abram only catches one of them. It's a box with a tube of ointment in it, the thing he picks up from the floor is a pill bottle. Antibiotics.

Andrew gets gauze and medical tape from the first aid kit under the bathroom sink and comes to stand in front of Abram, who's still looking at the medicine.

'I'm going to tug down the neckline of your shirt and put ointment on your injury. Yes or no?'

'Yes,' Abram says, staying very still while Andrew does what he said he would. He covers the wound with gauze and tapes it down, then tugs Abram's shirt back in place.

'Does it hurt?', Andrew asks.

It's been stinging all day and the ointment only seems to make it worse. 'I'm fine.'

Andrew picks up a bottle of whiskey from the coffee table. 'Drink up,' he says. 'Anaesthetic, right?'

Abram takes the bottle from Andrew and takes a swig, then hands it back. Andrew drinks it like it's water, keeping his eyes on Abram.

'Take a turn,' he says.

'Do you still cut yourself?'

Andrew makes a face Abram can't decipher. 'Yes.'

'Who caused the burn scar?'

'My father.'

Andrew takes another swig of the whiskey. 'I'm sleeping on the couch again.'

'We'll take turns. It'll ruin your back.'

Andrew shakes his head. 'The bed has your stink all over it.'

Andrew gets a glass of water from the sink and hands it to Abram.

'You have to take the antibiotics twice a day.' He takes the pill bottle out of Abram's hand, pops one pill out and gives it to Abram, who swallows it down with the water.

Andrew locks the door again when they go to bed.

-

They fall into a routine. 

Three weeks go by. The wound in Abram's shoulder starts to heal.

Andrew still eats mostly ice cream and finds a coffee shop that sells cakes made pretty much out of just sugar, but Abram discovers that he'll also eat really spicy pasta and pizza with extra cheese. They've gone to the Thai place two more times.

Abram goes running, Andrew goes to the gym.

Andrew buys Abram a couple new outfits, insisting that Abram stands out too much when he looks like a homeless kid. He buys himself a set of black armbands that cover the wounds on his wrists. 

He actually sleeps in the bed a couple times, though he gets up at five or six in the morning and is quiet for the rest of the day. He locks the door between them every night.

They start going to the supermarket together. Abram is used to staying inside for a while, but apparently Andrew still thinks he gets too restless, because every so often, he drags Abram to a big supermarket and they go through every isle, even though they're only buying ice cream and ramen.

When they get to the register, Andrew puts an Exy magazine with their stuff as well. Kevin Day and Riko Moriyama are on the cover.

Andrew walks towards the exit while Abram pays, but stops to listen to Abram's exchange with the cashier.

'Your shirt is really cute,' she says.

'Thank you.' Abram's uncomfortable with compliments. It means he's being noticed.

'I haven't seen you here before.'

'Oh, I haven't been here for that long.'

'You should hit me up, I could show you around.'

She writes her number on his receipt and he tells her goodbye and puts his stuff in his backpack, unsure if the cashier is a threat.

Andrew grabs the receipt out of his hand when Abram catches up with him.

'She was flirting with you.'

'What?'

'The cashier was flirting with you.'

'Oh.'

'Are you gay, Abram?'

Andrew's voice sounds weird. 

'No. I'm - I don't know. I'm not anything.'

Andrew doesn't say anything, but Abram feels like he needs to explain himself.

'I've kissed girls before, but it never did anything for me.'

'And boys?'

Abram shrugs. 'I've never kissed a boy, never wanted to.'

Andrew lights a cigarette and hands it to Abram. They walk the rest of the way to the safe house in silence, sharing the cigarette.

'What's with you and smoking?', Andrew asks while they are kicking off their shoes.

'My mom used to smoke.'

It's weird, but for the rest of the day he can't stop thinking of her. He lets two cigarettes burn to the filter through the window, the image of the beach stuck in his head. His mother's body, lifeless, like she was made out of wax. Blood on her shirt, blood on the car seats, blood on his hands.

Andrew reads on the couch. Abram goes for a run, but it gets hard to breathe half an hour in. It takes him a while to realise he's on the verge of crying.

He goes back to the apartment and showers for almost twenty minutes, unable to stop crying.

Eventually he manages to get himself together enough to get dressed and make it to the bedroom without Andrew noticing he's upset.

His mother is dead. She's dead. She protected him for the last six years and now she's dead.

He goes to sleep, even though it's only eight and dreams about his mother for most of the night.

Andrew unlocks the door at seven. Abram just stays in bed.

He hasn't had the time to think about his mother's death before. Now it's all catching up with him.

There's two separate moments at which he's sure he's hyperventilating. He cries at some point, wiping away the tears even though there's new ones replacing them. A lot of the time he sleeps.

Andrew lets him sulk for three days before he throws open the bedroom door. He pulls open the curtains and opens the window. 'Go shower,' is all he says.

It takes Abram an hour, but eventually he does.

Andrew has Thai take out waiting for him by the time he's showered and put on fresh clothes.

'We're leaving tomorrow,' Abram says.

Andrew nods. 'Where?'

'Portland.'

He doesn't want to be in California anymore.

Andrew drags him along to the supermarket to get stuff for on the road. Whenever Abram gets too lost in thought, Andrew grabs his wrist, which somehow helps to ground him.

That night Abram waits for the sound of the door locking.

It doesn't come.

-

Andrew drives the first five hours.

He's drinking coffee with three different kinds of sweeteners and he's turned up the music, something messy with too many instruments at the same time, loud enough that it won't be sustainable for the entire drive. Abram turns it down after an hour and Andrew only turns it back up two hours later.

He turns it off for a moment while Abram makes a call to one of his mother's German contacts.

There will be a room waiting for them in his hotel in Portland. Two separate beds. The staff won't ask any questions. They can stay as long as they need to.

Abram tells the man where he can find the ten thousand dollars he’ll receive for his discretion and ends the call.

‘We need new names,’ Abram says.

Andrew nods. ‘How do you normally pick them?’

‘Just… generic stuff you’ve heard before. My mom usually picked them.’

They’re silent for a while.

‘How did you get the booze and the cigarettes?’, Abram asks eventually. ‘None of my ID’s are over 18, let alone 21.’

‘There was a guy at the gym who liked me. I asked him.’

Andrew steers the car towards a gas station. ‘What did your mom call you?’

‘My middle name. Abram.’

They get out of the car. Andrew goes to buy sandwiches and ice cream while Abram gets gas.

That’s when he spots Romero. He ducks immediately, putting away the gas nozzle, trying to get his breathing under control.

The gun is in the bag in his car, but he can’t move, can’t even feel his arms. He looks at the man again to see if he’s been spotted yet and it’s not him. It’s not Romero. They look alike, but it’s not him.

Abram gets to the driver’s seat of the car, still hyperventilating.

Andrew’s there at some point, though Abram finds it hard to pay attention to him. Then Andrew puts a hand on the back of Abram’s neck.

‘Look at me. Abram. Come on, look at me. If they’d find us right now you couldn’t even fight back. Look at me. Don’t be useless.’

Abram keeps his eyes on Andrew, breath slowing little by little.

Eventually he just turns in his seat and starts the car. Andrew lets go of him and watches out the window.

‘Was there a threat?’, he asks.

‘A guy who looked like… someone who’s looking for us.’

The panic attack exhausted Abram, but he drives for three hours before Andrew tells him to pull over so they can switch.

Abram protests, saying that he’s fine, but Andrew ignores him and waits by the driver’s seat door until Abram gives up and gets out.

He takes a nap while Andrew drives them the rest of the way to Portland.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Float by the Neighborhood


End file.
